


Gwent Addict

by vands38



Series: Oxenfurtverse [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Chapter 8, Gwent (The Witcher), M/M, Old Married Couple, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Secondary M/M pairing, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, gays supporting gays, no mention of valda I'm ever so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27133826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands38/pseuds/vands38
Summary: Geralt crosses paths with Sebastian Vatis in a gwent tournament. He remembers him being a terrible player, so why does he keepwinning?A story set in Return to Oxenfurt verse but can stand alone.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Oxenfurtverse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980514
Comments: 20
Kudos: 79





	Gwent Addict

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlooodyMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlooodyMoon/gifts).



> thanks to blooodymoon for giving me an excuse to write 3000 words about gwent <3
> 
> I'm not sure how canon this is yet in terms of Oxenfurtverse so we'll call this an "unofficial" story for now, especially seeing as there might be some more non-canonical ficlets on the way ;-) Sebastian was introduced in [Chapter 8](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24124669/chapters/59243695) for those that want a refresher, but it's in no way necessary. A few of you had the headcanon that Sebastian let Geralt win their games of gwent because Gays Supporting Gays and I loved the idea so much that when blooodymoon gave me this prompt, I couldn't resist writing it in. This is set a couple of years after that initial game.
> 
> Unbeta'd
> 
> content warnings: mention of prostitution, casual use of the word "addiction", and deception for comedic effect

Geralt returns to Oxenfurt one Friday afternoon in late Spring to see flyers for an annual gwent tournament pinned to noticeboards all over town. It must be an amateur competition judging by the low entrance fee of twenty crowns but with a jackpot of over two hundred it could well be worth his time. A heat for each region tomorrow, and then the final the next day. He’s got the time. He marks down the date and location before making his way towards the Academy where Jaskier will be waiting for him. 

The next day when they’re walking to town, Geralt asks why Jaskier has never thought to mention it – 

“Because you’re a gwent _addict_!” Jaskier exclaims with flailing hands. 

Geralt glares across at him, unamused, before double checking his satchel for the precious cargo – five decks, already carefully selected and ready for play, with a few spare cards in case he gets wind of another player’s strategy before play. He wouldn’t want to play against a spy-heavy Nilfgaard deck, for instance, without that additional decoy. 

“By which I _mean_ ,” Jaskier amends, “that I thought you already _knew_ about the competition and thus felt no need to inform you of its locale.”

Geralt grunts, not buying Jaskier’s excuse for a minute, as they approach the field by the Pontar where the same large marquee used for Academy events was erected. 

Jaskier is distracted by the sight of complimentary food and wine almost as soon as they enter, which allows Geralt the time to peruse the list of contestants and size up his competition for the day. He recognises a couple of names – Jackson, the armourer is here, so is Georgia, the alchemist, and that Sebastian fellow who Geralt had played once during that end of year feast with Jaskier. No one that ought to give him any trouble. Jackson occasionally gets the upper hand when they play but his moves are easily predictable so Geralt need only be _un_ predictable in order to win. He’s only played Georgia once but knows that she prefers the Scoia'tael deck so he ought to target mid-range. And Sebastian, of course, was foolish enough to request three games only to lose them all. It’s a wonder he signed up in the first place. The poet’s deck made prominent use of weather cards, Geralt recalls, so he should shuffle in some extra Clear Weather cards to counter him and spread his army over multiple fronts. 

“Oh shit,” Jaskier mutters, sidling up to Geralt as he examines the competition. “Professor Vatis is here. Hide me, quick, or he’ll harangue me for my late paper –” 

“Which one is Vatis?”

“Sebastian Vatis! The poet! You met him a couple of years back. He was a post-grad back then but he’s just taken on some of Professor Carmen’s classes. And it’s a breath of fresh air, let me tell you! His stanzas are delightfully irregular –”

“ _Jaskier_ –”

“Right, right, well, you played gwent with him at the feast. I told you he was queer and lives with that sailor – you know, uh, Idzi? I think that’s his name anyway. Fuck knows, the guy’s never around. Too busy sailing or whatever it is that sailors do.”

“Hmm. Sailing seems about right.”

“Sure, _sailing_ ,” Jaskier says with amusement. “But you remember him?”

Geralt nods. The partner’s name sounds familiar too; perhaps Sebastian had mentioned it when they played. Geralt casts his eyes around the room until he finds the light-hearted poet, with a drink in his hand and a smile on his lips as he gossips with one of the ladies. “He’s a shit gwent player. Why is he here?”

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier chastises, “you can’t just _say_ things like that. Where’s your sense of showmanship?” 

“The mutagens took it,” Geralt says drily, just before the host announces the pairings for the first round. “Here, guard the rest of my cards,” Geralt says, upon hearing his first match is against the alchemist. “I only need the Northern Realms deck and this extra Impenetrable Fog.” He shuffles the new card into his deck before passing Jaskier the satchel. “Take good care of them.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, no doubt unwilling to consider the gwent cards as the priceless possessions that they are. Geralt has spent nearly a century building his decks and even when his reputation was in tatters, he was still able to earn the occasional coin from playing cards. They’re as vital to him as his swords. 

Jaskier must see a glimpse of his reluctant sentimentality because the bard’s expression shifts into one of sympathy as he accepts the satchel, and then crosses his hand over his heart and bows, as dramatic as ever. “I will guard them with my life, dear Witcher. Now go,” he says, pushing Geralt towards the arena, “win enough to buy me dinner!”

Geralt huffs a laugh under his breath and takes his seat opposite Georgia. He wins handedly, just as he’d expected, before being paired with Jackson in a much narrower victory. Afterwards, he scans the board and notes with some surprise that Sebastian Vatis is still in the innings. He tilts his head in contemplation before darting his gaze towards the joyful man. Perhaps he has just been lucky with his opponents thus far. 

“Only eight of you left in this heat,” Jaskier says, rubbing his hands together excitedly as they wait for the last pair to finish up. “What deck do you reckon you want next?”

Geralt hums, studying the names again. “Depends. What can you tell me about this _Lucas DeMoignes_?”

“Aside from the shape and size of his cock? Not much.”

Geralt looks at him with an expression that he hopes is just as fond as it is exasperated but he fears it may have tilted in favour of the latter.

“He was a Camber boy,” Jaskier says with a shrug. Seeing Geralt’s clueless look, he explains, “It’s a boys only college on campus. The richest one, at that. Full of braindead toffs that need their cocks sucked. Good experience in first year, and good coin now… Oh, don’t get all pouty,” he complains with a slap to Geralt’s arm, because, admittedly, the news that Jaskier was selling his services seemed to trigger his protective instincts. “I just figured I might as well take their coin if I’m doing it for fun anyhow. Lucas had my talents free of charge, however, only a couple of weeks into term. He graduated last year. He does something boring and scientific in agriculture now. I couldn’t tell you what. Something about soil types? Fuck knows. He was always a bore. I think I saw him playing gwent once though. He used, ah, that one with soldiers?”

Geralt closes his eyes and tells himself that Jaskier is doing the best job he knows how to do, it’s just that his best is _shit_. Jaskier is smart, and is familiar with gwent, but he also has a very annoying habit of only memorising the ‘important parts’ of which deck choice, apparently, was not one. “Can you describe what these soldiers looked like?”

“Uh, blue?”

Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. “Were there, perhaps, catapults and other heavy artillery in the furthest row?”

“Yeah…. Yeah! That sounds about right!”

“Northern Realms then,” Geralt concludes. “Did you see any spies?”

“Um, what do those look like again?”

Geralt’s frustrated response is cut short by the host announcing his game with this DeMoignes fellow. He turns back to Jaskier and gestures for the satchel, “Never mind, give me the Nilfgaard deck with an extra decoy and let’s hope that you’re not entirely wrong.”

The young man is cocky and plays a heavy-handed game and Geralt forfeits the first round having learned what he needed to. He steals the Northern spies in the second round and uses them effectively in the third, and when DeMoignes loses, he spits in Geralt’s face and storms out of the arena, mumbling something about mutant cheats. 

“Pleasant fellow,” Geralt mutters under his breath before returning to Jaskier who is still fuming at DeMoignes’s retreating form. 

“And he calls himself a _noble_ ,” Jaskier sneers, “there’s nothing noble about that kind of behaviour. Come here, my love, and I’ll –”

“No need,” Geralt interrupts, having already smeared the boy’s spit onto the sleeve of his shirt. “Who’s left?” he asks, squinting at the distant board. “Pablo Espero, Ingrid Smith, Sebastian…Vatis?” 

Geralt frowns. Either Sebastian is having a deceptively easy time at this competition or he’s somehow vastly improved at gwent since last they met. Or, perhaps, Geralt realises with a heavy sense of guilt, he had been too afraid to best a Witcher outside the safety of a competition. Geralt’s lips twist with the unpleasant realisation. He hadn’t smelled any apprehension coming from the man when they played but you don’t need to be actively afraid to be wary. Geralt feels rotten that he may have unintentionally cheated the poet out of his coin.

“What is it?” Jaskier asks, with a comforting hand on his elbow. “You look worried.”

Geralt shakes his head and studies the board. “Anything you can tell me about these remaining two?”

“Ingrid is a seamstress. She prefers the Monsters deck, which I know because I met her husband in the pub once and he said she was turning into one because she played it so much. She sold their son to a widow or something without his consent. He was _pissed_. Made a pretty good verse in _Drink Your Sorrows_ though, wouldn’t you agree?”

Geralt grunts his agreement. “And Pablo?”

Jaskier shrugs. “The baker. Hangs out at the Rosebud with the rest of us degenerates, though you wouldn’t know it by the light of day. He’s a cool dude. Always turns down my advances but I try not to take it personal, I just don’t think he’s into that stuff, you know? Some people aren’t. Seems happy with just his bread and his cat. Anyway, I think I’ve seen purple cards with him before?”

Geralt squints, and thinks he sees the strong-armed man shuffling something of that colour. “Skellige deck. Interesting choice.”

Jaskier throws his hands in the air. “Is it? I really wouldn’t know. More of a dice man, myself. Monsters, Skellige, it’s all gibberish to me.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Don’t play ignorant. You’re smarter than that.”

Jaskier snorts, always so disbelieving of his own talents. 

“You’ve played gwent with me before,” Geralt reminds him, thinking of those lazy days in Toussaint. “Multiple times.”

“And I’ve lost to you. Multiple times. Thank you for the reminder,” he huffs, crossing his arms and looking away with a pout.

Geralt smiles at the adorable display, marvelling – not for the first time – that this wonderful man has chosen him as his lover. 

The next game is announced. Pablo. Skellige deck. Geralt takes a minute to ponder his choices. Skellige is a strong deck, which means he’ll need his strongest to fight it. He picks up the Northern Realms and weeds out any extra cards that have fallen in during the span of the contest, leaving only his strongest twenty six cards. 

It’s a tough game, and exciting enough that it draws in quite the crowd. Jaskier stands behind him with a grounding touch on his shoulder. A touch that is definitely needed when Pablo plays the Mardroeme. In the end, Geralt wins by a singular point, and he congratulates Pablo on a good game with a firm shake of the hand. 

The only player left is Sebastian Vatis. Geralt has no idea what deck to choose to best him. Jaskier reports that Sebastian has been playing with various decks throughout the competition, staying unpredictable just how Geralt tends to be. He hesitates when choosing his deck but having been reminded of just how powerful Skellige can be, he withdraws it and examines his selection. “What do you think?” he asks Jaskier.

Jaskier looks both confused and honoured to have been asked, but his face quickly schools into something neutral and calming. “I think it’s a good choice. Though, you could lose the decoy. And the Clear Weather if you fancy your chances.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt darts a look back over to Sebastian. If he wins this heat, he’ll enter into the Finals tomorrow with the other winners from this heat. There would only be four of them. A good chance at winning that two hundred crowns. He doesn’t need the money as much as he used to but Jaskier is still struggling to make ends meet. Two hundred crowns could buy him books, a doublet, new lute strings…

Geralt nods his head and accepts the deck. “Wish me luck,” Geralt grunts as he pockets the purple cards. 

Jaskier’s smile tilts to the side as he gently cups Geralt’s cheek in his hand. “You don’t need it, my dear Witcher.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. He’s right, but, “wish it me anyway?”

Jaskier laughs and brings him forward to press their lips together. It is only a brief kiss but it is all Geralt needs for the nerves to disappear, bolstered by Jaskier’s affection. 

He meets Sebastian at the table, already surrounded by a milling crowd, and holds out his hand for the poet to take. 

Sebastian immediately breaks into a wide smile and clasps Geralt’s outstretched hand with both of his. “It’s good to see you again, my friend. It’s been too long.”

“Indeed,” Geralt agrees, shaking the professor’s hand. “Though I fear I must have hampered your talent in some way last we played given how well you have played today.”

Sebastian laughs and takes a seat. At his inviting gesture, Geralt follows. “It should be I that’s apologising, my friend! Truth be told, I may have recognised a comrade in need and –” he says, glancing at Jaskier before turning back to him with a wink, “– losing a couple of hands was the least I could do.”

The host starts announcing their game but Geralt pays no mind; still reeling over the revelation that a stranger paid him such kindness. He could barely afford to eat those days. His armour was in a state of such disrepair. And this man has given him thirty crowns under the guise of competition just because he likely saw his disastrous attempts at flirting with Jaskier and his penniless appearance and thought that he could help. Geralt ought to be embarrassed, or ashamed, but the thoughtful display of kindness outweighs any sense of pride. 

“Thank you,” Geralt says sincerely when the host has finished prattling.

Sebastian looks at him with confusion, as if he’d forgotten their previous conversation, before shaking his head with a laugh. “Don’t mention it. What you have done for our city –” he says, but he’s looking at _Jaskier_ , “is a kindness in return. I am merely pleased that you do not resent me for deceiving you.”

Geralt shuffles his deck and places it face down before him. “As long as you play an honest game now, poet, then I imagine I will forgive you just fine.”

Sebastian, true to his word, doesn’t hold back, and demolishes Geralt’s deck with a Skellige deck of his own. Geralt cannot even bring himself to resent the loss when he shakes hands with Sebastian after the game. It was a good game, and Sebastian is a good man.

“Okay?” Jaskier asks from over his shoulder when Sebastian has left with the host and the crowd begins to disperse.

“Hmm,” he muses, reaching back for Jaskier’s hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t earn enough for dinner.”

Jaskier chuckles and leans down to wrap his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. “I forgive you,” he says, brushing a kiss against his cheeks. “But I request your presence in bed in recompense.”

Geralt smirks and packs his cards away, not feeling slighted in the least. “I can arrange that.”

-

The next day, Geralt wanders over to the finals, curious as to Sebastian’s competitors. There are two names from other regions of Redania that he is not familiar with, but then… _Idzi_. Isn’t that…?

“– and please put your hands together for the three-time Oxenfurt champion, winner of the Beauclair Annual, the Kovir Tournament, and a regular at the esteemed Novigrad Quarter… _Idzi the Invincible_!”

Geralt watches, utterly mollified, as the legendary ‘Idzi the Invincible’ who has trounced Geralt no less than three times in various tournaments, swaggers up onto the stage with his tattooed biceps bulging under his ripped sleeves and a Monsters deck grasped in his calloused hands.

He joins Sebastain at the table with a wink and a smirk, “Hey honey,” he says. “Miss me?”

Sebastian smiles, wider than Geralt’s ever seen, as if he genuinely wasn’t expecting to see his partner on the other side of the table. “Back so soon, love? I thought you were gone for another month at least.”

Idzi shrugs and nudges his husband under the table with the tip of his boot. “Couldn’t let you take my title now, could I?”

Geralt huffs a laugh as the two draw their cards and play as viciously as any other competitor would. He stays and watches the game as eagerly as the rest of the spectators, shaking his head in disbelief that he didn’t recognise Sebastian’s partner until too late. He knew he recognised that name. He _knew_ it. 

-

By the time he returns to the Academy, Jaskier is sitting cross-legged on the bed with his head in a book and a smirk on his face. 

“You knew,” Geralt accuses as soon as he steps through the door.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Geralt tears the book from his hand to see Jaskier ineffectually trying to hide his giggles behind it. Jaskier squirms away with a laugh when Geralt tries to grab him. “I swear, I didn’t know –”

“You said Idzi was a _sailor_.”

“He is!” Jaskier squeaks, with his hands raised in defense. “That’s, you know, why he’s so good at –” He squeaks again as Geralt makes a lunge for him. 

“You knew he’d been training Sebastain –”

“Well, I… I mean, I _suspected_ –” 

“And you didn’t think this was useful information to communicate?!”

“Uh –” 

Jaskier makes a dive for the door and Geralt captures him with a single arm, pulling him into his arms as the bard makes a little yelp of surprise. 

“Fine!” Jaskier gasps, squirming in the grip. “You caught me! I thought it would be funny! And it _was_ funny, so –”

Geralt growls and loosens his grip enough for Jaskier to turn in his arms. “You’re lucky I like you,” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier smiles with all the charm that he knows he possesses, and trails his hand teasingly up Geralt’s arm. “Is that all?” he asks with a flirtatious tilt of his head.

Geralt grunts and pulls him closer. “You lost me two hundred crowns, and you want me to tell you that I love you?”

Jaskier dives forward to take Geralt’s bottom lip between his teeth and, instinctively, Geralt leans into the touch, growling at the erotic gesture. What is two hundred crowns compared to this? What is the entire concept of _gwent_ compared to this?

Geralt gives into the touch, taking Jaskier’s lips between his own and holding him closer in his arms for an altogether different reason than he had five minutes previously. “I love you,” he murmurs, never tiring of the words, and never tiring of the way Jaskier lights up at the sentiment. “But I’m never taking you to a gwent tournament again.”

Jaskier laughs and pulls him into another kiss. And as the gwent tournament continues across the city, Geralt finds that he doesn’t feel bereft at all. He’s won a much better prize, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! all OCs are from [Return to Oxenfurt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24124669/chapters/58080643) – some you will encounter soon if you haven’t already! & the song referenced is obviously [Drink Your Sorrows](https://vands88.tumblr.com/post/620351669053554688/from-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-by-vands88-the).


End file.
